Little Miss Babysitter

-- 14 --

I brought some rough fingers through the mass of matted, soggy hair that laid limp on my shoulders, wincing at the slight pains that went up my scalp at even the slighest of tugs. It balled up into clumps, forming unattractive heaps of yarn that made it look like I had an uneven amount of curlers beneath my mane.

This is all Nate's fault. If he hadn't dumped his friends' perspired slime on me, I wouldn't have needed to use his blasted shower, I wouldn't have needed to have used to his blasted man shampoo, and I wouldn't look like I just came out of the 1973 version of the Exorcist!

By the time I finished mulling over the current situation, I was panting in rage, and I gripped the sides of the sink, staring rigidly into the mirror. The appalling girl in the reflection stared right back at me, challenging me with her untamed brows and unkempt coiffure. My blood thirsty, golden eyes laughed in amusement, turning their backs on me and simply walking the other way without sparing so much as another glance.

This totally crossed the line. If Nate had half a brain, he'd come up here right now, get down on one knee, and beg for forgiveness whilst shedding two buckets full of tears that I could later dump over his head as I pleased. Oh, and this all happens after a few knees to the groin. Can't forget that.

I smiled, a fresh smile, as the picture of Nate doubled over in pain entered my mind, and not once did I usher it to leave. I elaborated on the subject, thinking of possible poison induced tortures, when a sudden knock at the door made me jump out of my skin.

"Hey." Nate leaned on the doorframe, his unflexed bicep bulging slightly. Hopefully it was my imagination, though. He's a weakling! .... Not really. I'd like to believe that, though. He'd be less intimdating.

"You don't deserve my hellos." I seethed, my hair beginning to wear thin. I turned back to the mirror, my shoulders stiffing and locking in place. His soft, clothed feet thumped lightly against the shining tiles of the bathroom as he came behind me, his face appearing just above my heightened shoulders. A coy smile rested peacefully on his full set of lips.

"Feisty." He growled playfully, pinching the smoothed skin on my arm between the pads of his fingers. I let out a squeaky yip, and frowned at him through the mirror. "Just the way I like it."

He chuckled a bit, before he sighed, his ragged hair dropping lowly onto his forehead, masking whatever expression had previously been there. "Maybe Rosie was right. Maybe you're playin' for the other team, and you just don't know it yet."

I shook my head frantically, flipping around to stare him in the face. "What?!"

"Y'know. Well, you don't know." He laughed, his green eyes peeking through the cracks in his hair. "I'm convinced you're lesbian."

No coherent words could possibly be formed, even with my extensive understanding of the English vocabulary. My mouth dropped open, and I raked my brain for a sharp comeback or witty comment to counter him, but I couldn't think of any.

So, first, he dunks me in the nasty river of his pals sweat, and second, calls me a lesbian? A PLAYER FOR THE OTHER TEAM?!

"Get out!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, and thrusted my hands onto his chest with the little force that my muscles contained. He somehow lost his footing, and the next thing I knew, I was tangled in a mess of limbs inside the bathtub, my cheek smashed against his.

"Guht.. Op.. Om.. ME!" I gurgled lamely, crying out in frustration. My tears boiled behind my eyes, and I drew my knees to my chest, suddenly free. "I hate this job! I hate it! I wish I could quit, but--"

That's when the water works started. My tears leaked from my swollen eye sockets, and poured down my cheeks in steady streams. I muffled my cries with the thick cotton of the baseball jersey he had lent me, and rocked myself back and forth to try and calm the raging, tormented seas inside my heart.